


i wanna be what my body wants me to be

by the_everqueen



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Body Horror, Canon Era, Centaurs, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-21 05:07:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19996363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_everqueen/pseuds/the_everqueen
Summary: reasons you should read things before signing them: you just might be giving your humanity away





	i wanna be what my body wants me to be

Of course John read the contract. Of course he did. He studied law, he knows better than to sign something without examining the terms. He just didn’t think they applied to him, is all. Foolish of him, really, to rail against special treatment on the basis of his father’s name and then think he’d be exempt from this particular sacrifice. 

The workroom is full of horses.

John pauses at the tent flap. Hamilton trots ahead of him, tail swishing as he chatters about the duties of an aide and why you should never accept liquor from Tench. He’s halfway across the tent when he realizes John hasn’t followed him. “Laurens?”

A panicked noise catches in the back of John’s throat.

Hamilton notices. His slender ears prick and his brows wrinkle in concern. “You all right? You look a little pale.” He moves towards him.

John takes a hasty step back. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Right.” Alex frowns. “You still need to report to the General. But after—you’ll have some time to rest before supper. I was gonna have you work on some letters, get a feel for the job, but it’s just translation. Guess you would be tired, just come from Philadelphia. I forget how much sleep humans need.”

Humans. As though John is the foreign creature. Except…he is, here. None of the other aides are human—Hamilton isn’t human, Hamilton has four legs and a glossy bay coat. 

How much sleep do horses need?

“I’m fine,” he repeats. “Where do I find His Excellency?”

Hamilton points him in the right direction. “Just go in, he’s expecting you.”

Seated at his desk, Washington doesn’t look up when John enters. He’s working through stacks of papers, thick brows knit together in concentration. John shuffles on his feet, fingers tugging at the cuffs of his shirt while he waits. Just when he’s about to clear his throat and announce his presence, Washington says, “Glad to see you arrived safely.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah, came straight from Philly. Sir.” 

“Your haste is noted.”

Is that a rebuke? John flushes, opens his mouth to apologize, but Washington is speaking. “Hamilton will show you about your duties. He said you’re fluent in French so you can help him with translations—in addition to your ongoing communications with Congress, of course.”

The General raises his head to give John a significant look. John can’t parse it, though he feels its implicit sting, the  _ is that going to be a problem for you, Rich Boy, having real work? _ Or maybe, because Washington’s grave demeanor and mild, authoritative tone remind him of his father:  _ i trust you won’t disappoint me. _

John is so lost in his thoughts he misses the last thing Washington says. “Um. Sorry, sir. Could you repeat that?”

Washington sighs, impatient. “We’ve arranged your procedure three days from now. The mage couldn’t come sooner.”

“Procedure?”

“I’m sure you’ve noticed the nature of my staff.” A mirthless laugh, incongruous with his serious expression. “It was Knox’s idea, actually. Cuts down on costs and makes the operation at headquarters more efficient. Not to mention, centaurs are a—pardon the pun—stable form of chimera. High benefit, very little risk.”

“Chimera.” John chokes on the word. “Sir, you can’t mean—”

“You signed the contract,” Washington says. “I admit, I was surprised, but Henry insisted on an aide-de-camp position—said you wanted to be at the center of the action—and you agreed to the terms. I have your signature, should you require proof.”

_My father is the President of Congress,_ John wants to scream, _you expect me to_ _be turned into a horse without complaint?_ The words stick in his throat. He’s remembering the contract, with its sheaves of paper and neat, flowing script, and the clause tucked into the final paragraph: _I hereby commit my service, my life, and—as necessary—my body to the Cause of Independence._

Oh. 

Oh god.

Washington is watching him, waiting for his response. John feels as though he should protest—surely there’s some loophole, some arrangement that could be made—but, then again, he did sign the contract, knowing the terms, and he’s a man of honor— 

And this is his chance to  _ do something _ with his life. All the privilege he’s been given, all the terrible things he’s done, and finally he can make a real difference. He can build a better world, where freedom and justice actually mean something. 

“All right,” John says. “I mean, yessir. I’ll undergo the procedure.”   
  
  


“There’s no need to be nervous,” the mage tells him. “It’s a routine procedure.”

“Yeah.” John bounces his leg and glances around the tent. A wide space has been cleared and spread with crisp white tarp, where the mage can execute the procedure without dirtying his work space. The potions and powders are pushed to the side, piled on top of each other, some labeled with Latin abbreviations and others inconspicuous in their anonymity. “So I’ll be back at work tomorrow?”

“Well, maybe not that soon.” The mage pours a packet of reddish dust into a mug, mixes in a splash of water. “You might need a day to adjust. But most people take the change easily. And of course, if you want a reversal later, centaurs do well at making the switch back to human. A reversal for an avian—now there’s a risk.”

Reversal. Right. If John survives this war—though thinking that far ahead makes him queasy with uncertainty—he’s not going to spend his remaining years as a horse. 

“All right,” the mage announces, handing John the mug. The liquid inside is thick and dark like a cup of hot chocolate John once drank in Geneva, except it also smells rancid. “Drink that and have a lie down on the tarp here. You’re going to feel drowsy; don’t resist it.”

John drains the mug in one go. The effect is immediate, or maybe he’s nervous: the blood seems to rush from his head, his palms growing sweaty. Fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, he lays down, curling on his side as a knot clenches inside his stomach. He swallows past the slickness rising in his throat. Routine procedure. The mage bustles around the tent, gathering supplies, lighting candles, marking the edges of the tarp with strange, inky symbols. John watches him, pulse thudding in his ears. He wants to shake his head, make the persistent rhythm stop, but he’s drifting and the effort to lift his head is too much. 

Routine procedure.

“...you might feel some pain, but try not to struggle…”

The other aides have undergone the same process. The price of defending liberty. 

John thinks of Hamilton, with his delicate ears and swaying hindquarters. 

It’s a routine procedure.

He can do this.

He can do this.

He can’t do this.

He grunts and struggles to sit upright. His vision blurs, the knot in his stomach jerks tight. Hands press down on his shoulders. “—please, sir, lie down, this will pass—” The words come from far above him, floating in and out of his head. His skin twitches. For an instant, the words coalesce, filling his mouth like saliva— _ no, please, i made a mistake, i’m too selfish, too cowardly, too  _ human— 

—and then there is pain.

It feels like someone has reached inside him, grabbed a fistful of his guts, and attempted to flip him inside out. His spine stretches and breaks, his skin expands, a thousand buzzing nerves reaching for something outside of him that will stop this hurt. He arches, trying to stand or escape—phantom limbs flail for purchase on the tarp, joints twisting at wrong angles. The feeling of it, pain and too many legs and lightning crackle over all his skin, seizes him with its sudden and inescapable wrongness. 

John screams. He screams and screams and his voice cracks, ricochets into a shrill noise that’s nothing like a human makes. Hands flutter on him and away. There’s liquid dribbling down John’s open throat, choking him, making him cough and sputter on the bitter taste. Liquor? Something for the pain. Something to make him stop feeling. 

His thoughts slide into nothing.

  
  


When he comes back to awareness, the first thing John registers is that he’s been split apart at the seams.

He thinks, absurdly, of coconuts. How the other day one of the aides had brought some to HQ, pilfered from a shipment, ugly snaggle-haired things with surprised faces. How Hamilton had broken one open with an ironshod hoof, causing its hard shell to crack and its milky white insides to spill out. John feels like that: fractured, exposed, softness turned inside-out for devouring. 

He groans, shifts, and— 

—his brain scrambles for something to hold onto. There is too much: skin twitching, limbs kicking, crowded smells (salt, earth, blood), an odd heaviness in his whole body. He grunts, and his legs thrash out, struggling to get underneath him. Oh, that’s—. He makes the mistake of looking down at himself. 

_ wrongwrongwrongwrongwrongwrongWRONG _

His stomach heaves. He doubles over, gagging, except nothing comes up. Somehow that makes it worse, his naked skin crawling as though it wants to escape him, a cold froth breaking out on his  _ no no don’t think about it not yours not yours not real _ .

“Ah, you’re awake.” He jolts at the sound of the mage’s voice, nostrils flaring. “You were out for a while there, Mister Laurens. But the procedure seems to have taken quite well. Of course, you should take things easy for a few days, let yourself adjust—”

The mage reaches for him, human fingers brushing against a quivering flank, and John reacts on instinct, horror at his own body and an overwhelming surge of  _ terror _ and  _ threat _ .

He bites down on flesh, tastes blood.

The mage  _ swears _ .

John pants.  _ Things _ on him flick and shudder, and he thinks very, very hard about something,  _ anything _ besides this body that he’s trapped in. He digs fingers into his arms, trying to ignore the scrim of fuzz that’s grown over the backs of his hands ( _ like fetlocks _ , his mind supplies, and he flinches from the thought).

“Whoa, it’s okay, you’re okay.” Hamilton’s voice startles him, it’s so close. He jerks his head up. Hamilton is kneeling on his forelegs, hands outstretched with palms turned out as though soothing a wild animal. “It’s just me.”

“D-don’t do that,” John snaps. There’s an odd pressure against his skull, and he takes a second to realize it’s his ears, pinning flat. The realization does not make him feel better. 

Hamilton frowns. “What?”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a fucking animal.”

“Hey—” Hamilton’s tail swats at an invisible fly. “I’m saying—it’s a change, you’re gonna be recovering, I’m not being  _ patronizing _ .”

“Yes. Yes, you are.” John grits his teeth and slowly,  _ s l o w l y _ traces his hand down his chest, his torso, the trail of fine, soft hair that leads to the seam where his body splits into— 

_ nonononono _

“—careful, you might feel sore for a couple days—”

“Shut  _ up _ ,” John says, or maybe not. The next thing he knows, he has lashed out with teeth and Hamilton is squealing in equine indignation, scrambling onto all four hooves.  _ Don’t touch me don’t look at me _ , John thinks, and at the same time some new part pleads,  _ don’t leave me, need herd, want herd. _ Lone animals fall prey to predators. Lone animals die without the safety of numbers. 

John digs his fingers into the tarp beneath him.

Hamilton whickers. Somehow that is more comforting than anything he has said: familiar animal noise with new shades of  _ here, friend?, safe. _ John inhales, focusing on the smells around them. Fresh, sweet hay and warm, musky horsehair. Something bitter from the mage’s worktable. 

“Can I get you some water?”

John lifts his head, considering. “Yeah, that’d be—thanks.”

“Sure.” Hamilton sniffs at a cup on the worktable and pours some water. He glances over the array of powders and vials, selects one packet and sprinkles it into the cup. “Don’t worry, I studied medicine before the War. Well, not extensively, but I took some classes. Decided law would be a better fit. Also it’s easier to cram law studies—no bodies, just books. Anyways, this is just some quinine, it should help with the soreness.”

“Mm.” John sips the water. His lips feel strangely sensitive; he mouths absently at the rim of the cup. “M’fine.” 

“Right, yeah. Totally normal, biting a man’s arm nearly to the bone. You’ve still got blood on your mouth, by the way.”

“He startled me,” John mutters, scrubbing his mouth with a fetlocked wrist. “And I’ve just been turned into—I went through a magical procedure, that isn’t  _ nothing _ .”

“Hah. No offense, but we’re in a war. You get used to magic before a bullet catches you gawking.”

John flushes, embarrassed.  _ You got any use to you, Rich Boy? _ In his three days since reporting to HQ, he’s learned what Hamilton thinks of those men that get promotions through their fathers, or their wealth. “Am I going to have to get fitted for another jacket?”

Hamilton snorts, cracking a grin. “Yeah. Don’t stress about it, I know a good tailor.”

  
  


There’s not much time to adjust before John has to get back to work. He wobbles out of the mage’s tent on coltish legs, settles into the stables where the aides spend their nights in rotating three-hour shifts. The reduced sleep cycle is less disturbing than it sounded as a—nope, John isn’t going to start thinking of himself as inhuman, he is the  _ same person _ with the  _ same sensibilities _ , and once his tenure as an aide has ended, he will  _ get a reversal _ —well. After a few hours of dozing, he feels restless, and the longer he spends curled on his side, the harder it gets to breathe. He’s sharing a stall with Hamilton, who sleeps even less than the others and stands up through his predawn hour of rest. Hamilton indeed knows a decent tailor; the man refits John’s uniform so that his jacket flares out instead of bunching around his back and lower shoulders. Pants are no longer a concern (though John blushes horribly as he reports for duty, unable to shake the feeling that he’s walking around naked). What  _ is _ a concern are his hindquarters: he keeps underestimating his new bulk and knocking into tables. He can’t think for too long about the long ears poking through his curls or how the tail swishes at flies of its own accord. 

He is not a horse. He’s a soldier. 

A soldier who needs to get his hooves shod.

“We’ll go to the farrier,” Hamilton tells him. “You don’t want to be moving camp without shoes, and with winter coming—well, better to take care of it before you chip a hoof.”

John scowls, crosses out a translation error in his draft. The desks in the General’s tent are set up like the easels he used to paint in Geneva, so that the aides might work while standing. His own work space happens to be next to Hamilton’s—the man can hold a conversation while writing letters straight from the mind of Washington, and he’s starting talking to John throughout the day, muttering bits of gossip and stream-of-consciousness commentary. John would mind less if Hamilton weren’t so distracting. His swiveling ears and slim flanks thrumming with pent-up energy like a racehorse snag on John’s new flight instincts; he’s constantly spooked by some movement in the corner of his eye, which upsets his French. 

“It’s like a trip to the barber,” Hamilton continues. “Or clipping your nails. You won’t feel a thing.”

“I’m not nervous, Hamilton.”

“I didn’t say you were! It’s—you’re new.”

“And I’ve got work enough to bother with—” he stumbles over  _ my hooves _ , because that is a phrase he is not prepared to say out loud “—frivolities.”

Tilghman blows out an irritable breath. “You think basic maintenance is frivolous? You’ve never had a rock lodged in the frog of your hoof.”

Harrison whinnies. “Go easy on him, it hasn’t been a week yet.”

John curls his lip.

Hamilton flaps one hand, the other fixed to his quill, scratching out sentences even as he talks. “Laurens has owned horses, he knows how this goes, he’s just not used to—it’s an adjustment. Really, the fault is with the General, he ought to schedule the farrier with the mage. How hard would that be? And of course I mean, he ought to have us set them back to back, in which case maybe it’s actually our fault. We did not arrange a good welcome to our newest herd member.” 

Tilghman says, “I think that fell under your duties, Ham.”

Alex squeals and launches into a rant about how he can’t be expected to carry this entire office on his shoulders, and John assumes the subject of shoes has been dropped.

He is wrong.

Mid-afternoon, Hamilton bumps his hip. “C’mon, let’s get you to the farrier. We’ll call it a lunch break.” 

“Since when do we get breaks?”

“We don’t; I said we’d call it one. Besides, you’ve been working on that letter to your father for an hour and making no progress, you might as well get something done.”

“How did you know I was writing to my dad?”

“You finished your copies this morning.” Hamilton shrugs. “I figured you must have transitioned to correspondence.”

Heart in his throat, John says, “I could have a wife.”

Hamilton laughs. “Handsome devil like you? I don’t believe it.”

“Are you saying I’m not a gentleman?” John asks, letting his Carolinian drawl soak through his vowels.

“Even a country nag has horseshoes.”

“Fine,” John says sourly. 

The farrier, as it turns out, is in town. What would be a brief ride takes as long as if John were walking on two legs, since he startles at everything. Once there, he stands sullenly to the side while the man trims his hooves and Hamilton starts an amiable conversation. John flinches at the hammer striking iron, ears pinned against the ringing noise. He yanks his foot back at the farrier’s first attempt to fit a shoe, shrieks when the first nail goes into his hoof, and rears onto his hind legs when the man tries to shave down the nail points. Hamilton gives up talking, whickers at John, and then holds his hands to keep him from instinctively lashing out, nips him when he tries to bite and yank away. 

After, John’s feet feel heavy. 

He clomps along, awkward. His ears remain flat and tense on his skull. 

Hamilton says, “It’s not so bad after—”

“Shut up,” John growls. 

  
  


When they get back to camp, something dark-furred and pink-tongued runs out to greet them, mouth stretched wide. John rears back, arms raised to strike or protect his face. Hamilton makes an annoyed sound, though his ears flick down unhappily. “At ease, Laurens, it’s just Laf.” He frowns at the creature. “You oughta know better than that, you looking to get trampled?”

Once John’s brain isn’t screaming  _ THREAT PREDATOR RUN _ , he recognizes the Marquis. He’d met the Frenchman before his procedure but hasn’t seen him since; the canine head and clawed hands are less grotesque this time around. A dog chimera isn’t uncommon in a war—canines make loyal soldiers, and fangs are free weapons—but John had found it surprising that someone with a title would choose the procedure. Usually the wealthy go for feline or avian transformations—fashionable, risky. Then again, Gilbert du Motier ran away to join a revolution across the Atlantic, so he isn’t typical.

Lafayette folds down his pointed ears and licks his lips, apologetic. “It has been days!”

“Yeah, we missed you, too.” Hamilton rolls his eyes. “His Excellency most of all. How is Greene?”

“How do you think? There are not enough recruits, and the men he does have are in such poor shape as to be useless except as cannon fodder.” 

“Welcome to the Revolution.”

“It is not that I thought your war would be sophisticated,” Lafayette muses, “but the ideals—your Mr. Jefferson’s Declaration—they are so beautiful. And yet—”

“—no one gives a shit if it means giving up their own comfort?” John suggests.

“The human animal is driven primarily by self-interest,” Hamilton murmurs.

“The human animal is a hypocrite,” John retorts. “You can’t found a movement on principles like  _ freedom _ while you keep a whole fucking race enslaved. You can’t talk about  _ all men are created equal _ and then argue some of them aren’t  _ people _ because of the color of their skin.”

Lafayette cuts him a shrewd look. “You are Henry Laurens’ son?”

“We both regret the fact.”

“He, ah. Knows of your procedure?”

John’s throat tightens. He paws at the ground before he can stop himself. “Not yet.”

(Hamilton glances sideways at him, curious:  _ was that the—? _ )

“It’s fine,” he adds quickly. “I’m sure he’s heard about the General’s staff, and he’ll just—I’ll get a reversal, later.”

Hamilton frowns.

“I mean, it’s a war, anything could happen. Magic is just an option, if it comes to...that.” Although in the moment he can’t weigh which would be worse: dying in a body that doesn’t feel like his, or surviving long enough to be returned to himself. 

There is an awkward silence.

“We should get back to work,” Hamilton says, and Lafayette pants in relief, tongue lolling, says  _ yes, of course—we should get a drink sometime, when you are less busy _ , and Hamilton parries back,  _ i’m always busy, and you can’t have alcohol _ , as though they’ve had this exchange dozens of times.

  
  


What the contract didn’t mention—couldn’t have known—was  _ herd _ .

Sure, there’s the horror of eating grass (and not finding the dewy green taste disgusting, instead pulling up handfuls to shove into his mouth because after a week of living on mealy apples he’s  _ hungry _ ). There’s shame the first time he lets out an instinctive squeal. There is the cold fear that pools under his sternum when he thinks about his father seeing him with square pupils and spotted flanks. But those things almost don’t matter when John trots into the stables after midnight and Harrison whickers at him from his stall, and Tilghman gives him a friendly snort as he heads to work, and Meade snores loud enough for all of them to hear.

That, the easy recognition and equine mutters of  _ safe, herd, here _ , feels like coming home.

Hamilton sleeps less than the others, but he leaves the office shortly after John does. “So I won’t disturb you, trying to sneak in,” he argues. John isn’t sure about that: he’s a heavy sleeper, and surely Hamilton could schedule his shift some other time. Also, isn’t sneaking out an equal disruption? 

(John raises none of these points.)  __ __

Hamilton trots into their stall after John has slipped on a loose nightshirt. Despite the darkness of the stables, John can clearly make out his features as he shrugs out of his jacket and unbuttons his waistcoat and shirt—Hamilton has the half-lidded expression he gets when he’s lost in thought, already drafting a letter to be sent in the morning, or preparing his latest case to be placed in charge of a battalion. He sleeps without clothes: his bared shoulder blades flex as he stretches both arms over his head, the tufted mane trailing down his back mussed from sweat. 

John catches himself staring and glances away, face warm.

Picking up a hard brush, Hamilton combs his lower shoulders and sides with efficient strokes. He gives John a look from under his long lashes. “Do you need a hand with grooming?”

The thought of Hamilton’s hands on his flanks, gentle and fastidious, makes him shiver. “No, I’m fine.”

“You really should maintain your coat. I know the weather has been mild, but once it starts getting colder—matted hair attracts lice, and it reflects poorly on the office—”

“Hamilton,” John interrupts, amused. “You said it yourself, I’ve had horses, I know how this goes. I’m just...I’m not used to it being  _ me _ .”

A pause. “Alex.”

“What?”

“Call me Alex. No need to stand on formalities, we’re friends, aren’t we? At least, we’re part of the same herd.”

“Right. Yeah.” John nibbles on his lower lip. “Good night, Alex.”

There is a smile warming his voice when he says, “Good night, John.”

**Author's Note:**

> title is from mitski's "townie" (quite the John Laurens song, imho)
> 
> i'm on tumblr @the-everqueen. comments absolutely make my day.


End file.
